A Measure of Beauty
by cayt-lynne
Summary: Irene Adler doesn't fall in love. It's the first rule of being a dominatrix. But then she meets Sherlock Holmes, and everything changes. Irene is lost when she experiences heartbreak for the first time at St. Bart's.


A Measure of Beauty

It had been years since Irene had seen Sherlock. After he had rescued her from her execution, she had run. She was still running, but she was getting tired. There was only so much a woman could take, even if she was The Woman. And she would never admit it to _him_, but Irene was missing Sherlock. She made it a rule not to become emotionally attached to her prey, but Sherlock was different. He was smart, confident, and gorgeous. Irene was fairly certain she liked him, except that it had been so long since she had let herself like someone, she wasn't sure of her emotions.

Pacing the floor of her elegant apartment, she caught glimpses of the Louvre through her window. Paris was wonderful, full of good food, beautiful people, and lots of work for the dominatrix. But no matter how beautiful or fun the city was, it was not home. Irene belonged in London, and she was growing more and more tempted to go home to see her detective.

She stopped pacing. _Her detective? _Since when had she started thinking of Sherlock as hers? Well damn. That meant she really did like him. She might even _love_ him! Horror at her mistake was making her feel sick. The number one rule for a dominatrix was to never fall in love. It was all Sherlock's fault. How had she let this happen? She let out a string of curses, before going on to insult Sherlock in the only way she knew how.

"Ridiculously hot….insufferable…sexy….smart….who does he think he _is_?..." The abuse went on for several minutes.

Eventually, Irene sighed and picked up her phone. There was only one way to fix this.

"Hello, Kate? Get me a ticket. I'm coming back to London. Tonight."

"Kate, open a window. The house is stuffy. Good God, how I've missed this place." Walking through the rooms of her pristine house, Irene felt a glow of satisfaction. This was where she belonged. Yes, she was only going to be able to stay for a few days, but that would be enough. "And get my closet ready. I'm going out this afternoon and I have to look my best."

She would see Sherlock this afternoon and get this whole mess cleared up. A heart is a funny thing, one that Irene would rather do without. It was only causing her more and more problems. Slinking into her living room, Irene dug the television remote out of a small end table drawer and turned on the news. She could at least listen while she was getting ready. Turning her back to the TV, Irene walked over to the fireplace and opened up the safe that was hidden behind a painting. She froze, however, attention caught, when she heard what the news reporter was declaring to the world.

"-Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, has been found out as a fraud and kidnapper. Police are investigating whether or not Holmes has any connection to a string of kidnappings that have occurred throughout London in the past month. Having been the solver of each of these perplexing cases, some are finding it difficult to believe Mr. Holmes has anything to do with-"

At that point, Irene walked out of the room and heard no more.

Later that same day, Irene put on her least attention attracting outfit and went out into the city. Since she was still in hiding, it wouldn't do to advertise the fact that she was back. Besides, she only wanted to see Sherlock. But where would he be? She smiled to herself as she pictured him at St. Bart's beating some corpse with frustration. She loved that he had a riding crop too. They matched!

"Ugh, I haven't been this disgustingly attracted to someone in years." She was acting like an adolescent, not the mature adult that she was. It was getting annoying.

She turned her feet in the direction of St. Bart's and walked along, watching the people around her. She heard a few talking about Sherlock and how fake he was. Irene scoffed. Sherlock wasn't a fake. He was probably the most real person she had ever encountered. Sherlock was incapable of being fake. He could act, oh yes, but the amount of effort he would have had to put into being a fraud was ridiculous, and very un-Sherlock.

It was at that point that Irene found herself in front of St. Bart's. Smiling again to herself, she put her hand on the heavy front entrance and prepared to sweep into the room in grand dominatrix fashion. It was then that she heard the shout.

"Sherlock!"

That was the voice of Dr. Watson. She knew right away that something was terribly wrong. She had never heard John sound like that, sound like a man whose heart was being ripped from his chest while he watched. Irene whipped around to see John standing across the road, looking up at the roof. In the next second, a dark shape hit the pavement in front of Irene with a sickening thud. Stumbling backwards, Irene reeled at the sight of the dark curly hair soaking with blood, the body limp, and those beautiful eyes staring straight ahead, sightless. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

No longer able to stand the sight of her detective laying on the pavement and the sound of John Watson's anguish, Irene ran. She made it three blocks before she had to stop to throw up in the gutter. It couldn't be true, it couldn't. Why had he jumped? _That bastard!_ But her anger was weak and quickly becoming overwhelmed by the loss and sorrow that were making it hard for Irene to see, hear, and think. She gave up on getting away and sat down on the curb. Sobs wracked her body and exhaustion caught up to her. She was going to pass out. She called Kate, before some piece of trash could find her and take her away. She was in no position to defend herself.

"Miss Adler?"

"Kate." Irene took a deep breath. "I'm…Come and get me, please."

"Of course." Irene gave Kate the address and then hung up, feeling lost. It wasn't natural for Irene to feel like this. As a dominatrix, she thrived off of control and power. Now, she just felt weak and broken. Confused and lost. She had only one thought spinning around her head, over and over: Sherlock Holmes had ruined her.

Over the next couple of years, Irene tried her best to regain the sense of control that she had lost, that fateful day at St. Bart's. She continued to gather secrets and do her job, but her heart wasn't in it anymore. Kate was becoming increasingly worried about her and rarely let Irene out of her sight. Eventually, Irene made a decision.

"Kate, I want to go home." Predictably, Kate wasn't happy. Last time Irene had gone back to London, she had come back destroyed. But Irene felt a need to be back in the city where Sherlock had lived…and died. It was the only way to be close to him again without hunting down his John. But that was a very bad idea. Irene had checked on John a month after St. Bart's and had been appalled at what she had found. John was a wreck, slowly losing his mind. No, John would be no help.

Eventually Kate gave in, as she always did. Irene would be in London the next day.

Walking in slow circles around the hospital, Irene looked up and tried to imagine what was going through Sherlock's mind when he plummeted through the air. When she reached the front doors again, she heard the distant sound of sirens coming closer. Another accident, another life on the line. Sighing, Irene started to walk away, defeated. Sherlock wasn't here. She had lost him forever.

The ambulance pulled to a stop in front of the hospital and a flurry of activity, shouting and frantic footsteps, erupted. Irene kept walking.

"Sherlock, hang on."

Irene stopped dead in her tracks. Did she just hear-?

"He's been shot, someone help us get him into the Emergency."

That was John Watson's voice. She turned slowly, and there he was, bent over a gurney. The patient's face was hidden behind John, but Irene caught of glimpse of brown, curly hair that was plastered to the head of the patient. She started running forward, only to realize that John couldn't see her. She was supposed to be dead. Irene listened carefully to the doctors as they discussed which room he would be in that night. She would be back, she silently promised him.

That night, Irene persuaded a night guard to let her in. It wasn't difficult. Her dominatrix powers were slowly resurfacing, and getting what she wanted was a piece of cake. Once inside, she climbed four flights of stairs and found room number 462 in a hallway full of beeping machines and the stink of disinfectant. She waited for the nurse to turn her back, and then slipped into the room.

"Sherlock," she breathed. It really was him.

He stirred at the sound of his name and for a moment, Irene worried that he would wake up. He couldn't see her, even though he knew she was alive. He had been the one to rescue her. But they had made a deal: Irene could live, but she had to leave. But here she was, and he was about to wake up. Striding forward, she increased the level of morphine trickling into his system to the maximum. He wouldn't remember her now.

"Sherlock." She shook his shoulder, careful not to hurt him. "Sherlock."

His eyes opened, blurry from sleep and unfocussed from drugs. All the same, her breath caught at the sight. He had the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. And the rest of him was just as beautiful. There wasn't really a way to describe it. How did one measure beauty? There weren't adjectives. Beauty, to everyone, was beauty. But there are different kinds of beauty, and Sherlock's beauty had then all beaten.

"Irene." His voice, quiet and slightly confused, was still deep and Irene could feel the vibration in her bones…and other places.

"Sherlock, it's me. I had to see you, I'm sorry."

"I thought you left."

"I did," She whispered. "But I came back to check on you two years ago. I went to St. Bart's."

She heard him take a breath as he realized what had happened. What he had done to her. Even though she knew he knew, she wanted him to realize just how much he had wrecked her life. Maybe not as much as he had ruined John, but still, it was not an inconsiderate amount of damage. Anger bubbled up and she could almost taste it in her throat. Her eyes burned but she refused to let herself cry in front of him.

"I was outside the entrance when I heard John shout." Her voice trembled and she hated it. "I turned around and your body _landed right in front of me_!"

She was shaking, and she had to fight the urge to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. She walked around the room, pacing, trying to calm down. She felt Sherlock's eyes following her and she fought against the shiver of delight that this caused. She wasn't here to be bewitched by him again! What was she here for then?

"Irene-"

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't come here to yell at you. I thought you were dead and then I saw that you weren't but then you had to go and get yourself shot, didn't you? I just needed to see you for myself. I'll leave now."

She went to the door. There was a small table next to it. Irene pulled a single red rose out of a hiding place and placed it in an empty vase that was there.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," She whispered.

She had left the room and the door was closing behind her when she heard it, the faintest of words that found their way to her retreating form:

"I'm sorry."

And Irene couldn't help but wonder how many times he had said that to John.

Fin.


End file.
